


The Dreamer

by thanksforthecrumb



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Changing Tenses, Character Study, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-21 01:32:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1532759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thanksforthecrumb/pseuds/thanksforthecrumb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A character study on Francis when Henry says, "My son…making history with me. Just like I've always dreamed." I thought it was an important moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dreamer

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on the scene when Francis and Catherine confront Henry about the troops. Specifically when Henry mentions how he'd "always" dreamed of making history with his son. You could just see the pain and want and hurt in Francis's eyes…God. Character study on what I thought might be going through Francis's head at that moment. Tense-changing might be kind of sloppy because I kept changing the tense from past to present. A lot of it is intentional, but there might be one or two errors.

_Just like I’ve always dreamed._

_Side by side._

_Always dreamed._

_My son…making history with me._

**_Just like I’ve always dreamed._ **

 

When did you become your father’s son, not his heir, not his usurper? When did the word “son” hold so much value, so much meaning? When was it ever used as a synonym to Francis? When had he ever looked at you with those eyes, spoken to you with that voice?

You know when. Never.

You’ve always wondered what it would feel like to have those proud, affectionate eyes placed firmly on you. You’ve always wondered what it would be like for your father to look at you like you matter, like you matter to _him_. You’ve always watched Bash smile his easy smile and get the same beam from the king. You’ve always watched as Bash made your father proud with his many talents, his skills, his charms. And you’ve stood by, bravely, firmly, cowardly, as you receive dagger eyes and withering glares from your father. Maybe if you’d been braver, stood up to your father instead of letting him get to you, maybe he would’ve liked you. But you’d stood by and tried your best to make your father look at you like Bash.

But it never worked. Never.

And now, your father looks at you with watery eyes, watery _proud_ eyes, and smiles wistfully and speaks of how he’d always dreamed you’d work side by side.

How can you look back into those eyes and tell him the same thing? How can you stare into his face and tell him that you’ve spent nights lying awake, wondering what the hell you could do to make your own father love you? How can you tell him the countless times you’d look for your father just to see if he was looking at you, just to see if he approved of what you did? How you’d stare into the night and hope against hope itself that one day your father would love you like you always wanted? 

You can’t tell him that. Never.

You don’t even think you could express your pent up emotions. Those emotions he’d forced you to abandon. Anger and hurt and betrayal and accusation. Hatred (directed both at him and you) and yearning and desire. Remorse. Along with blind, foolish, angry love and respect and admiration. It all boils inside, bottled up tight because he’d told you loudly over and over again that you weren’t to feel emotions.

But there will never be a time when you don’t feel emotions. Never.

He is still staring at you with deep eyes and you find yourself lost in them, struggling to know what dreaded emotions the stubborn king is feeling now. Is he regretful that he’s neglected you for your whole life? Does he wish he could do it all over, do it all better? Is he truly proud of you? Does it matter? At this point, do you even care what he thinks of you?

You know the answer. There would never be a time when you don’t care what he thinks of you. Never.

You glance at him and try to smile, though all you really want to do is stand there and make sense of it all. You are numb and dull, filled with want and desire, _needing_ to know he means what he says, means that he’s always dreamed of the two of you, working as father and son, for your country. But at the same time a cold, nagging voice tells you that he hasn’t changed. He never will. He is still the same stone “father” who so often turns his back and continues to let you crawl in his shadows.  But you want it to be true. You want your fantasies, your dreams, your wishes, to come true. You want so desperately to believe him, to smile and nod and agree with him; you’ve always dreamed you’d work together, too. And you have. But you’ve dreamed of so much more than that. You’ve dreamed and prayed for a real, true father. One who would smile if he passed you in the halls. One who enjoyed your company, who gave you advice, who told you stories at night. Or, at the very least, one who doesn’t look at you and curl his lip.

_Just like I’ve always dreamed,_ he’d said. And even though you can’t tell him how you feel out loud, you let it all pour out in your head as you look down at your feet, your gaze occasionally flitting to hold his.

_I’ve dreamed, too, Father. I’ve dreamed of a time when I can call you “Father” without getting angry or feeling hurt, without wishing you could’ve been there for me like you always seemed to be for Bash. I’ve dreamed of all the ways I failed you, all the ways I let you down. And when I finally realized it wasn’t me, I dreamed of all the ways_ you _failed_ me _, all the ways you’ve_ always _let me down. Because I might’ve disappointed you, but there is no one else more disappointed than me in you. You were never there. Never. And now…I don’t understand it. Are you pretending? Or have you finally realized all you could’ve done, all_ we _could’ve done, to be better? To be better for each other? It’s been far too long, Father. Far too long. And I’m still dreaming. Are you?_

You wonder if your eyes say everything you can’t, tell your father how you feel about him, about yourself. Can he read into you, just through your eyes? He is staring intently into them, and you quickly move your gaze to the table. He can’t know. As if he ever would.

Your mother glances between the two of you, perhaps seeing the family she let down. Perhaps she’s thinking of all the ways she could’ve held your family together, all the things she didn’t do, all the things that led to a broken son and his distant father. She is not blameless in all this. None of you are.

_Just like I’ve always dreamed._

Well. You’ve always dreamed, too. Haven’t you? There is hardly a better word to describe you than dreamer. You’ll always be a dreamer. And that is where you’ve failed your father, and where he’s failed you. The two of you are dreamers, forever looking for the things you can never reach, can never touch. You will never wake up from this terrible, beautiful dream. And neither will he.


End file.
